Angels don't blink
by GeassOfWriting
Summary: In a sleepy village without a name in Yorkshire stuck in a time rift, the doctor stops to refuel the TARDIS. But what he is unaware of is the approaching statues, and what connection a mysterious young girl has to them. Soon the pair are caught up in an adventure that neither of them coould have anticipated. Features D11, OC and Weeping Angels


**Obviously I don't own DW so I'm just saying that all characters except ones you don't recognise don't belong to me.**

The torrent of rain poured down relentlessly on the small village without a name. The village wasn't on any map, its location hidden from the outside world completely, only accessible to a select few. Understandably, none of the residents of the village without a name knew that their sleepy hamlet existed at only a single point in time, stranded within a time rift, caught forever in a single moment. Nobody could enter the village, yet at the same time, no-one could leave.

Given that, it was even more peculiar why, on the 2000th repeat of the dismal Sunday morning, that the village without a name received a visitor. Of course, the residents wouldn't notice anything odd, for them it was completely normal for a visitor to come-why wouldn't it be?

But a few of the naïve residents noticed a few abnormalities with a visitor appearing out of nowhere. One of the farmers, an elderly man nearing retirement saw the visitor as he was tending the cabbages. He glanced up, shifting his hood with his gaze to shield himself from the damp. As he gazed up the hill he saw a figure with a blowing green scarf. A single person stood motionless at the top of the hill without a name on the edge of the village without a name. Now, this old farmer decided to call to the figure, whether he intended to shoo them off his land, or to ask of the identity of the mysterious person was unclear.

But as he opened his mouth he blinked.

And the rain continued to pour on the field by the village without a name and no-one was there to witness the disappearance of the old man, as if he hadn't existed in the first place.

Several minutes later the figure wandered down the main road in the village, which contained the post office, the grocers, butchers and bakery and an assortment of stone houses that gave off an aura of peace, a piece of history frozen.

The rain hadn't stopped yet the figure walked, completely dry. It was obvious at first glance that the figure was indeed a female, a young one at that. She couldn't have been more than 17, just a slim, tall child but she gave off an aura of age, and of a life much longer than that of what she had appeared to have experienced. Black ankle-boots skimmed the cobble street, treading delicately yet sure and purposeful. Skinny jeans curved her twig-like legs like a mould. A navy blazer fitted like a glove over a plain white top. But what was probably the most recognisable piece in her outfit was her scarf. The long green scarf wrapped once around her petite neck before blowing behind her in the non-existent wind.

Whilst her outfit was generally unremarkable, her beauty was truly unique. Despite her seemingly young age, her beauty could be easily compared to famous models, whose maturity had only contributed to their looks. The agelessness found within her emerald eyes was framed by dark lashes that rarely met as she blinked. Pale skin that would have seemed sickly on any one else appeared marble-like. No blemish could be found on her china-like complexion, her small heart-shaped lips gave an impression of innocence and her petite button nose contributed to the elegant demeanour she carried. Dirty-blonde ringlets spun down her back, unaffected by the wind that carried her scarf.

Despite the oddness of her being in the village without a name, no-one was there to witness her presence. Most residents were still asleep in the warm beds, the occasional shop keepers busy preparing for the day didn't notice the girl.

Her purposeful walk took her deeper in the village, past the post office, past the butchers and past the grocers, but before she reached the bakery she turned down a thin path. The path was once regularly used and tended but years of disuse had allowed the grass to grow tall, hiding the remnants of the path. Still damp from the rain and dew, the grass glistened like stars, the rising sun casting a few miniature rainbows across the shrubbery. But the young girl who seemed neither young nor just a girl didn't mind the wetness. She strolled through the grass, her jeans and boots grew increasingly damp.

Within a minute or two she had reached the end of the path, where it met with an old cobblestone bridge. The bridge, had grown purposeless as the house on the other side was disused; the bridge, path and home had become as forgotten as the village itself to the outside world. The river beneath was barely running, a stream the only reminder that a once powerful river had flowed. Once the girl reached the middle of the bridge, perpendicular to the stream, she jumped. Her hands reached on to the side as she gracefully swung her legs over and let herself drop. The fall wasn't particularly far, at most 2 metres, but she landed as if she had merely stepped down some stairs. Her boots were further dampened by the remnants of the river, as she began walking upstream, careless of the state of her shoes.

By this time the rain had completely stopped, the growingly visible sun shone through the gaps in the trees that overhung the river. She walked perhaps a hundred metres until the stream split. One path went back towards the village centre where she had just come from and the other deeper into the Yorkshire countryside. But the girl ignored both paths, her interest capture fully on the point where the paths met, focused on the structure that stood there.

The blowing wind was blocked by the houses that bordered one side of the ditch, the other side an overgrown madness of weeds.

Stood there, in the back of a river in a village without a name, deep in the Yorkshire countryside was the blue Police Box. The box seemed uninhabited except for the upkeep that clearly was done on it. But the girl didn't seem confused by the appearance of the box, neither did she seem happy by her discovery.

She slowly reached out her right hand to the door where she placed her palm, absorbing its presence.

She knocked.

Quickly glancing to the houses on her right she was unsurprised to see that several small statues and household ornaments had gathered at the windows to witness. Small stone gnomes that sat in gardens were found staring with tiny figures.

Looking to her other side she saw that several, larger statues that held the appearance of angels crying into their hands had gathered amongst the weeds, waiting for a chance to move.

Suddenly the door to the box swung open and peered out was a young man with a bow tie.

"Hello. Who are you?"


End file.
